


Batman Going Forward

by vanillafluffy



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Barbara Gordon preBatgirl, Brat Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne as seen by others, Gen, Growing Old, Life Lessons, Not Canon Compliant, Old Age, POV Outsider, Post Batman Begins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-27
Updated: 2006-05-27
Packaged: 2020-01-12 00:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18435284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Three interconnected stories (originally posted in 2006, afterBatman Begins. Bruce/Batman as seen by other Gothamites as he picks up the pieces after the fire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Watching the scene toward the end of Batman Begins where Bruce Wayne fires Earle, I wondered where he was going in the limo, and the obvious answer seemed to be, to go stay in the hotel he bought. After all, Bruce handed a check over to the maitre d', didn't he? However, it takes more than writing a check to complete a transaction like that.

The phone on my desk gives a discreet buzz. It's Gruber, at the front desk. "Bruce Wayne is here, Miss Sterling."

Of course. I've been behind my desk for a scant fifteen minutes after spending the night running all over the city to confer with Gotham Emergency Management. The confrontation I've been expecting is going to take place today of all days, when I've had no sleep and am ready to tear someone to shreds. The envelope with his name on it rests on my desktop, edges creased from having been in my evening bag the night before.

"Bring him back," I say with resignation. A quick inspection in the small mirror from my desk drawer reassures me somewhat; my hair is in place, and the concealer helps disguise the circles under my eyes. This is as good as it's going to get this morning.

In the brief time it takes for Gruber to escort Wayne to my office, I practice deep breathing and hope I can manage not to lose my temper too badly. I will not scream...I will not throw things...I will not shout...I will not stab him with my letter-opener... To be on the safe side, I sweep the blade onto my desk drawer with the mirror before Gruber knocks on the door.

The boy billionaire enters, looking fresh and serene. I'm disgusted; has he no sense of shame? Last night, he alienated most of Gotham society, and this morning's news reports he's burned down his family home in a drunken episode. By rights, he ought to be hungover and upset, but instead, he's dapper in a pin-striped suit with a burgundy tie...and here he is in my office, settling into one of the leather chairs in front of my desk as if he owns the place-which he thinks he does.

"This is for you," I say, extending the envelope. He has to stand up to take it, and as soon as it leaves my hand, a great weight is lifted from me. His smug expression changes as he looks inside, and I struggle to keep the pleased smile from my face at his perplexed visage.

"I don't understand," Bruce Wayne says, dropping back into the chair and focusing on me for the first time.

"It's really very simple," I reply with artificial sweetness in my voice. "My name is Olivia Sterling." I pause for that to sink in-for his alcohol-soaked brain to make the connection with the name of the Gotham Sterling Hotel. "I own this hotel. It is not for sale."

Watching his mouth open and close as he looks from me to the check with 'VOID' written across it, back to me, is almost amusing. "But-but-I need a place to stay! I was planning to stay here."

"What a pity. I was going to return that to you last night," I say, biting off each word with crisp precision. "However, your inexcusable display of rudeness to your guests was sufficient to dissuade me from that course of action." That makes him blink. Maybe he's a tiny bit hungover? I do hope so. After hearing him loudly accuse his well-wishers of being suck-ups and sycophants, I hope his head falls off. "I have never seen a more blatant display of bad manners and poor hospitality in my life."

"That's no reason to back out on a deal."

"Deal? We had no deal. You came into my hotel, caused a drunken scene, thrust your check at one of my subordinates as though you were buying a new pair of shoes. You can't possibly be so naive as to believe that constitutes a binding contract. Rest assured, if I were going to sell this hotel, it would not be to you."

"Why not?" He interjects a note of insulted pride into the question, but neither that nor his pleading puppy-dog eyes melts me in the slightest. "My money's as good as the next guy's-that's if the next guy has a few billion on tap."

At just shy of forty, one feels an overwhelming fatigue after being awake for over 24 hours. If this young cretin survives another decade, perhaps he'll find that out. Perhaps he'll also realize that one can't always get everything one wants merely by writing a check.

"You are in no way suited to be a hotelier, and you won't receive a very warm welcome as a guest, either, if your reputation for torching things precedes you."

Oh, the hurt look that gets me! I'm sure he's been using that wounded expression to get his way for years, spoiled brat that he is. The Sterling fortunes lag behind the Wayne's vast empire by a scant zero, but I've never been idle. Some of my earliest memories are of learning to fold napkins for use in our restaurant. Has he ever in his life worked for anything? Ever gotten his hands dirty or done anything for anyone except himself? Does he have any idea of what goes on outside the safe little world he inhabits?

"My grandfather built Gotham's finest hotel sixty years ago. It's still standing; it's now the Westside Home for the Elderly. I maintain it in his memory." Thinking of Grandpa stiffens my spine. He'd enjoy taking this child of privilege down a few rungs. He certainly had no qualms about taking the starch out of me when I got too full of myself. "His grandfather took over management of an old fleabag hotel, which he later bought outright. That became the first hotel in our chain. After the new hotel went up, it became a shelter for the homeless...until last night. Now it's been commandeered as a triage facility in the Narrows."

"The Narrows?" Bruce's lip curls. He has looks and superficial charm, but no empathy whatsoever. "That's a crappy location for a hotel."

"Last night, while you were busy burning down a hundred and fifty years of your family's history, terrorists detonated a biochemical weapon in Gotham, and the Narrows were at Ground Zero." I don't think I've ever been so furious with one individual in my life. "Several hundred people have lost their lives outright, and there are thousands more who may never recover. Frankly, Mr. Wayne, I don't give a damn if you end up sleeping in a box!"

"It wouldn't be the first time," he says-as if passing out in a gutter after a night of boozing is something to be proud of.

"You are the most insensitive, irresponsible, egotistical-" I launch into a laundry-list of his shortcomings, finishing with, "-and your mother would be ashamed of you!"

"Leave my mother out of this!" he snaps back, the first crack in his composure. "You never knew her."

"As a matter of fact," I say through my teeth, "I was a flower girl in her wedding. "So, yes, I remember Miss Martha Schuyler Kane quite well, thank you." Temper, temper, Olivia! I can almost her her chide me as she did when I smacked the ring-bearer for knocking my bouquet out of my hand during the dress-rehearsal. I was eight-and-a-half at the time. "She was a lovely, gracious woman. Thomas Wayne was thoughtful. Considerate. A gentleman. You act like you were raised by wolves."

For a moment, he says nothing. He looks blank. I wait for the results of whatever may be going on behind those hazel-green eyes. "Miss Sterling," he says after some cogitation, "Right now, I'm homeless. If you'll allow me to stay here in the Presidential Suite while I get my act together, I'll make a big donation to your shelter." His tone is reasonable, even a little anxious.

"Why here?"

"It's the only five-star hotel in Gotham," he wheedles.

Well, that's true enough. It's a compliment to me, since I'm the one who created it, with Grandpa Stanley's blessing. As always, I regret that he didn't live to see it completed. "The standard rate for our Presidential Suite is ten thousand dollars per week, but for you, it will be twenty thousand. You will pay ten thousand to the Westside Home for the Elderly and ten thousand to the Gotham Narrows Relief Fund." Let some of his money go to people who need it.

Bruce Wayne gapes at me. Whines, "That's not fair!"

"Twenty thousand a week, and ten hours of community service." I'm going to keep raising the stakes until he bolts or learns something. "What happened in the Narrows last night wasn't fair either, but we all have to help pick up the pieces. You can't go romping through life as if it's your own private party. With great power comes great responsibility."

"That sounds familiar," he retorts." I think I got that in a fortune cookie once."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars and ten hours of service per week."

"Thirty thousand and not a penny less!" Wayne blurts, and he's grinning like the fool he is.

I'm not going to argue with him. "Thirty thousand a week and community service," I emphasize, glaring at him. The infuriating young pup looks happy-he's gotten me to agree to his demand for a room, but just wait-he's going to work for it. I'm going to teach Bruce Wayne to think of the welfare of others if it's the last thing I do.

===============

Bear in mind that the circumstances surrounding the fear-gas attack aren't going to be immediately clear to the general public, giving rise to talk of bio-weapons and terrorists. Currently, the antidote is cooking down in Fox's lab while he's conducting the board meeting.

.


	2. Surreptitious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unholy alliance: Jim Gordon, his daughter Barbara--and the Batman.

Dealing with the Batman gave Jim Gordon the shakes more often than not. After his ally in crime-fighting vanished between one heartbeat and the next, Gordon started to open the back door, then stopped, letting it bang into place. He leaned against the porch support, taking a deep breath. June was upstairs putting the baby to bed-in the glow of the porch light, he could see her moving against the lit window that signaled Debbie's bath-time, so he might as well take a moment to settle his nerves.

June would read him the riot act if she found out about his unorthodox partnership, and after the failure of his first marriage, Jim was taking no chances. He didn't want to give her a reason to suspect anything was unusual going on. There was a creak behind him, and he heard his older daughter Barbara blurt, "That was so cool! How did you do that?"

"Practice," said a succinct voice, and Gordon stood motionless. He hadn't heard Barbara's scooter chugging up the alleyway-How long was she there? he wondered, worried. Did she hear us talking?

"I'm on the gymnastics team at school," his intrepid offspring said. "Watch this!"

The fire escape clunked and groaned. One of the stars of the West Gotham High team, the petite junior often worked off excess energy on the rusty structure. Turning to look, her father watched Barbara execute a graceful series of maneuvers, then dismount with a showy somersault. She glanced up, past her father, and disappointment crossed her face. Another one of the Batman's surreptitious exits, he guessed.

"Not bad," conceded the Batman's deep voice, now well to Jim's left. Looking in that direction, Gordon saw a flutter of the crusader's cape disappear over the roofline.

For the first time, Barbara noticed her father in the dimness beneath the overhang of the porch. "Dad! Did you see-?"

Putting a finger to his lips, the detective stepped down to stand closer to her. "You can't tell anyone about this. Please, Barbara. It would upset your mother."

"She may be your wife, but she is not my mother," she said with spirit. Jim Gordon felt helpless to soothe her resentment. Turning her back on him, she strode over to where her scooter was propped against the wall. Barbara released her backpack from its bungee cords and began the ritual of locking the scooter up for the night. She looked like her mother; petite and slender...

Jim winced. The dangers he faced in his job had been one of the reasons her mother had divorced him. His ex-wife got custody of their daughter and was in the process of relocating when she was killed in a traffic accident. At the time, Barbara was nine. She'd been unhappy about his marriage to June three years later, and wasn't too thrilled by the baby sister she'd acquired eighteen months ago.

"Okay," he agreed, keeping his voice low. "She's not your mother. But June cares about us both, and if she finds out he was here, she'll panic. She doesn't know anything about him except for what's been in the newspapers."

The sixteen-year old regarded him for a long moment. "This is some kind of super secret police business, right?" Clearly, that was what she hoped to hear.

Drawing in a lungful of air, he tried to find an honest explanation for her. "Yes, it is a secret," Gordon admitted at last, "but it's not official business. The man who was here has saved my life-he's saved a lot of lives, Barbara, but there are bad people who would try to use me to get to him-and that means you and June and Debbie could be in danger if it came out that I work with him. Understand?"

There was a thoughtful expression on her face. "Do you know who he is?"

"No, I don't need to know. I don't want to know. The only thing that really matters is that the Batman is the best friend that Gotham has."

"And he's got some awesome moves," she pointed out. "I wonder if I'll ever be that good."

He rested a hand on the shoulder of her school jacket. "My girl's got some nice moves of her own," he praised her.

"Thanks, Dad." She gave him an unexpected smile and a peck on the cheek as she opened the screen door. "I've got a history test to study for. Good night."

No promise that she'll keep quiet, Jim thought. But I think she likes the idea of us having a secret from June. I'll have to keep my fingers crossed...

Barbara was as good as her word; she took a sandwich and a glass of milk up to her room and immersed herself in books and class notes for two hours, then went to bed. Gordon was relieved; his daughter might have inherited his stubborn streak, but compared to some of the kids he saw in the line of duty, Barbara was an angel. Team sports, community service, good grades... If she could get a scholarship to the right college, she can make a better life for herself than anything I could give her.

In the morning, Barbara remained discreet. She made pleasant conversation over breakfast about the volunteer work she was doing for her civics credit, hit him up for gas money for her scooter, speculated about whether she should take lunch or risk the cafeteria's idea of meatloaf- "Yours is much better!" she told June, who was startled by the compliment-and in general behaved as if she'd never had a close encounter with Gotham's most mysterious citizen. She didn't even protest when June called her "Barbie"; at any other time, she would have snapped back with, "I'm not a stupid doll!"

All in all, the secret stayed one hundred percent secret for just under ten hours. Then Jim Gordon had to satisfy June with a creative explanation for the new motorbike parked out back that sent Barbara into whoops of glee when she went outside to leave for school. His wife believed his tale of recovering a truckload of bikes for a grateful motorcycle dealership, but the detective suspected the true source of the futuristic-looking cycle, and so, he was sure, did Barbara.

As his daughter vroomed down the alley on her new prize and June returned to the breakfast table to finish feeding Debbie, Jim Gordon stood on the back porch, trying to quell the shakes.

.


	3. Theatricality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a result of his deal with Olivia Sterling, Bruce is doing community service at the Westside Home for the Elderly. One of the residents hopes to gain his favor.

Miss Marlena Wentwell has resided in the top floor apartment since the days when she was the reigning queen of the Gotham stage and it was the penthouse suite of the Sterling Hotel. That is...she has to stop and think: what decade is it, anyway? She was in her thirties back then, and now she is--much older than that, her mirror reveals to her sadly. Even with everything she knows about make-up, Miss Wentwell is unable to eradicate what Time has done to her. She was quite the chameleon in her day, but now the devices and artifices she wielded with such skill are inadequate to the task of revealing her beauty. Nonetheless, she'll do what she can before going downstairs for dinner. She wouldn't want Stanley to think she's stopped trying to be attractive for him.

Stanley Sterling has been an Angel to more than one of Marlena's productions. They've been carrying on a quiet little affair for some time now, but he hasn't visited her in-oh, several weeks, at least. He's a decade her senior, and this is his hotel. She hopes he's not tiring of her, getting ready to trade her in for a younger woman. That would be a shame, because Marlena has been meaning to talk to him about Billie? Bobbie? Gordon. She's just a little bit of a thing, but she's articulate and a graceful dancer, and Marlena is sure she's ready for a good ingenue role.

The girl is one of the maids, Miss Wentwell presumes, and she asks a lot of questions about theatrical magic. Although she doesn't wear a proper uniform, she's a nice child all the same; Marlena Wentwell has decided she will not report the uniform issue to Stanley. Young Becky--Betty? Something beginning with a "B". Her last name, Gordon, Marlena remembers because she had a crush on a boy named Gordon Hazlett, back in grammar school...the girl shows promise. She may blossom into a character actress one day-she's very clever with the make-up tricks she's learned from Marlena.

Going down to the lounge for a cocktail before dinner, Miss Wentwell pauses in the foyer. Goodness, the crowd is much older than usual this evening--it's probably been years since any of them has stayed up late enough to see one of her performances. She has a pen with her just in case someone does want an autograph--as well as a book of crossword puzzles to give her a reason for bringing the pen, so it doesn't look like she has a big head because she's a star.

Her favorite seat by the window is available. It gives Marlena a good view of the street, so she can watch people going past. It's very important for an actress to observe people--one never knows when something will lend itself to a characterization--but to her disappointment, there is very little to see this evening.

It's raining, and the avenue seems more drab than usual, with little traffic. There's trash in the gutters; the street sweepers had better get cracking. A good hotel like the Sterling shouldn't have such grubby surroundings. It lowers the tone.

No matter, she'll work on a puzzle for a little while before going in to dinner. Finding her place, she reads the clues. "A Night at the -" Opera. That's easy enough. She remembers watching the Marx Brothers antics on a date, when she was about Betsy's? Bonnie's? age. Blank Barrymore. Four letters. John, of course. She had a bit part in one of his plays near the beginning of her career-only summer stock, but oh, the thrill of working with one of the greatest stars of the theater!

Marlena is puzzling over 39 down: the answer should be "widow" for the clue to make sense, but there is no "w" in John. Perplexing.

"Good evening, Miss Wentwell," says a deep voice beside her, and Marlena glances up to behold a good-looking young man. He wears a parchment-colored shirt under a coffee brown cardigan the same shade as his slicked-back hair. She approves of the ensemble-it makes his hazel green eyes look even greener. Familiar looking--he reminds her of someone she knows through Stanley. Yes, that's certainly who he is, one of Stanley's friends. He knows who she is, at any rate.

"You're looking marvelous this evening!" she greets him, beaming. "I'm glad the weather didn't keep you away. I'm sure Stanley will be here any time now."

His hazel green eyes blink, and he assures her with exquisite courtesy that they will have a pleasant evening with or without Stanley. This handsome devil actually thinks he can win her away from her lover? It's laughable--although Stanley hasn't been around much lately--perhaps she ought to hear this one out. That's the trouble with married men; the allure of carrying on a double life wears thin.

"I'm sure we will," she agrees. This well-groomed specimen isn't wearing a ring. She should make a play for him. Her looks won't last forever. "My dear-"

"Bruce--Bruce Wayne."

"Of course, how silly of me!" Now that he's said so, she can see it in his bones. Marlena carefully closes the cover of her book. It wouldn't do for him to think that she was more interested in those silly puzzles than him. "Which one of Douglas's brothers are you?"

"His grandson," Bruce replies, and the reigning queen of Gotham theater laughs at the jest. He's quite baby-faced, while Douglas is solemn and serious beyond his years-Douglas hasn't a fraction of this one's wit.

"I know Douglas is the oldest, then Charles..." She knows there's another brother, but wasn't his name Harold or Henry or-? She must be thinking of someone else. "You must be the baby of the family," she teases Bruce, who seems a bit taken aback.

"I am younger than they are," he admits shyly. Boyish good looks and money and no wedding ring... There has to be some family money, even if he is the third son. Families like the Waynes always have a trust fund or two tucked away. What a catch he'd be! And what a divine couple they'd make...

Marlena steals a look at her reflection to be sure her hair is arranged, and is dismayed to see an old woman looking back at her. Bruce's reflection is young and handsome, but she has somehow aged, become one of Macbeth's witches...her lower lip trembles.

"There's a very nice boeuf bourguignon on the menu this evening," Bruce says, and Marlena pulls herself together. She will not descend into maudlin pathos; it's clear that her time has passed. There is a newer Sterling Hotel uptown, and the official name of her residence is the Westside Home for the Elderly. It's time for new faces, like Bessie's. She can still encourage others, even though her own faded dreams are collecting dust upstairs.

"I'd be delighted if you could dine with me, Bruce." Miss Marlena Wentwell bestows on him a smile befitting a queen, even a monarch of such a tattered queendom as hers. "Do you have an interest in the theater?" she asks as they stroll toward the dining room, her hand on his arm. There is no sign of Stanley Sterling; he may be in the kitchen attending to details of the meal-she tells herself that of course he is somewhere on the premises--but for now she will enjoy the company of young Bruce and try to coax him into underwriting little Barbara's career.

After all, the theater always needs patrons. Perhaps she can persuade Bruce Wayne to become an Angel.

-

**Author's Note:**

> Bear in mind that the circumstances surrounding the fear-gas attack aren't going to be immediately clear to the general public, giving rise to talk of bio-weapons and terrorists. Currently, the antidote is cooking down in Fox's lab while he's conducting the board meeting.


End file.
